Heartbeat
by LtLunacy
Summary: There was always something about him that got your pulse racing. Slash, Winters/Roe.


"I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

Maybe it is, maybe it's not. It doesn't matter anyway.

"You're mad."

Yes.

"No, I was just…"

Terrified.

"…worried."

"I'm sorry."

Again?

"Don't –"

"No, I mean this. I'm so, so sorry."

Oh, God.

"I didn't mean to –"

"Look, it's over. Done. It's fine, really."

"But –"

"Just drop it."

He looks so sad when you leave.

There's a scar on your ankle, round and small and ugly as a bullet, and it used to itch. Incessantly. It was something under the surface, looming and lurking like something of a demon. You would scratch it, but the feeling didn't go away. You still rubbed it, though, trying to get the itch to stop.

It stays there for a long, long time.

You don't get it. It was a small enough wound. Yeah, it hurt like a sonofa when you got it, but Roe got it patched up really well. The initial red of broken skin evaporated quickly, infection finding no hold. It healed well enough, uneven pale skin and a memory of pain and then of soft fingers all that remained.

You tell Roe about it. His brows furrow in though and concern, blue eyes all serious business and care. You let him examine it, his pale fingers working carefully over imperfect flesh. He finds nothing wrong, but promises to look into it, and hopes you feel alright, and to tell him if it gets worse, sir.

The itching disappears that night, forgotten.

The next day, it returns with a vengeance.

"Are you alright, sir?"

"We've already had this conversation, Roe."

A pause. Weighing options and consequences.

"You never answered my question, though."

Ah. The risky move. Quiet words, as inoffensive as possible. But there's something…

"Sir."

There it is.

You rub a hand over your face; sigh.

"I'm fine."

"You look exhausted."

"Had to type up a report last night."

It's a lie. His blue eyes go to your pale hands. Pale hands with no ink stains.

"You should get some rest, sir."

"I'm fine."

He sighs. You're a lost cause. Something aches inside you at the slump of his shoulders.

"Good night, sir."

He leaves and you watch him go.

A few months pass. So does the itch in your ankle.

Bastogne arrives. So does a new ailment.

It's in your stomach, this time. A coiling, serpentine feeling you almost mistook for hunger at first. But hunger doesn't feel warm or make you tense in worry or make your toes curl in anxiety. You've been hungry for the last few months; this is still a want, but for something more than sustenance.

The feeling lurks at the bottom of your gut, nearly imperceptible at times, and arises with gunfire. The shelling begins and suddenly you feel ringlets of heat and unease make their way steadily up to your esophagus, stopping only at the roadblock of the lump in the back of your throat.

And the feeling stays, through every bullet and drop of blood.

You do everything within your power to stop it, but there are only so many nights you can spend in foxholes and mugs of bitter coffee you can hand out before your superiors' glare you back to your tent, your maps, your plans. They tell you that these are what are going to save your men in the end, and stalling any action only prolongs your stay here, in this damned cold forest.

You hate it. A pen across page does nothing to sooth your nerves.

As your telling Roe this, he looks at you with patient, harrowed eyes. He's a shell of himself, now, a wax figurine in this empty forest, all porcelain skin and dark hair and red lips and pink nose. And his eyes. Blue eyes, still so blue, so tired, so –

Sudden heat is pressed to your palm, a tin mug passed from one set of frozen fingers to another. You open your mouth, to protest or apologize or maybe both, but he gives you a thin smile. Thin, but genuine in its compassion.

All you do is close your mouth and return the smile. It feels worn out even to you, but if Roe notices he doesn't mind, or at least doesn't say. He's generous that way. He gives you his time and his ears and his coffee and his heart and his smiles and expects nothing in return.

You spend the rest of the frozen night in that foxhole, with that medic. He owe him at least that much. He falls asleep at one point, breathing slow and even and quieter than a whisper, but you remain awake. You watch the line, you watch the sky, and every once in a while [once every other heartbeat] you watch the ebb and flow of Roe's breathing as he rests, the billow of breath around his face on the exhale and flush of his cheeks on the inhale.

The feeling in your stomach is raging, leaping. It flares every time Roe shifts in his slumbers, or sighs or murmurs. It's warm and unsettling.

But it's not altogether unpleasant. So you say nothing and try your hardest not to move and concentrate on keeping your breathing slow and steady.

You make it through the night and when morning comes you watch as Roe wakes up. His eyes open slowly, he shudders a bit, then stands and leaves. It's the simplest of partings, but you still end up feeling bereft.

Life goes on, though, even in Bastogne. You continue to write reports and drink bitter coffee and at night you curl in around that achy warmth in your stomach like it's a fire. You want to tell Roe, see if this is normal or if it isn't whether or not he's heard of a cure, but then you see him, with that pale face and dark-circled eyes, and you step back, step away.

It's not worth it.

Apparently he's given up on trying to apologize. He doesn't show up to talk to you and plead with you and try to fix this, whatever _this_ is. You think that's fair enough; he has to put all his effort into mending things already without this [_you_] hanging on his shoulders. He deserves a break, a rest, a reprieve.

You rub one hand over another, wondering why you're so disappointed he isn't here.

Austria, and you wake up shuddering to make up for the fact you have no reason to anymore. It's beautiful here. Sunny yellows and crisp blues and lively greens that manage to transform all the war into a long, gray haze. The initial effect of the sunshine and warmth is enough to blind you, blind you all, into a trance-like state of calm for a while. But there's still a war going on, somewhere. It isn't long until it catches back up to you.

Because for every smiling woman and cookie-crust cottage there is a gun and a bullet and a soldier with just enough alcohol in his veins and a jeep in a truckyard. At night, the olive drab reappears, blunt and blatant and bloody as usual. And the sharp, metallic smell of a rifle and a wound means that there is a job to be done.

Roe does his job. As always, he does it well.

So you do yours, try to keep up.

He leans over the boy, back towards you, lithe hands smoothing over blonde hair and coming up wet and red. You can see it's a lost cause, even by your untrained eye, but Roe stays there, murmuring, hands flying. He sees hope but you see another number and a letter home. Still, a jeep arrives, and Roe goes with it to God-knows-where in the night of night in Austria.

You stand there, heart pumping, the scent of blood making your head spin.

There's something about him that just leaves you wanting.

You stay where you are, because you don't know what you'd do if you didn't. You wouldn't drink or smoke or gamble or flirt with the local women. Not because you can't do these things. Just because you don't.

So instead, you just wait for him to return [to you], to ensure he's safe and sound.

You're terrified and angry and still tense when Roe finally returns. You think it might be nearly dawn, but it's too dark to tell or care at this point. All you know is the sound of tired footfalls and the silhouette of a medic against indigo black. You haven't an idea why you've stayed up for him, waited for him; he wasn't in any real danger and even if he was there was little you could do. Nevertheless, here you are and there he is.

You stay rooted to your spot even when he sights you, turns his path to yours.

"Sir," he says.

"Roe," you say.

"You didn't have to…"

But it's all he has time to say before suddenly you grab his collars and he's against the nearest wall, there because you're pressing him and you don't even know why but you do feel warmth against your cheek as he loses his breath and you steal the rest with a kiss. It's long and desperate and sad and angry on your part, weary and confused and worried on his, and when you finally pull back he's reeling from the unexpected loss. He has a shaky grip on your collars, your hands are vices on his hips, and for a while the two of you just stand there panting and lost and silent.

He opens his mouth to say something. Sick and scared, you release him, turn, and run.

There's a shooting the next morning. Renegades, you are told. Everyone is up in arms, caught in the whirlwind of panic which seems so out place in this beautiful place. They file out in jeeps to control the rebels, the rousers, the lost people with nothing but lost causes running through their fingers. As you watch them leave, bumbling down the cobbled lanes, you can't help thinking you're all more similar than you may realize.

As you watch them leave, you're in a bit of a daze. You're not quite sure what you were thinking about, and even that vague notion evaporated as you saw a head turn, blue eyes sharp enough to cut through the distant gaze you held with nothing. Roe jostles a bit as the jeep hits a particularly odd-placed pothole, and holds the contact with a partially opened mouth.

You can't help it. It begins slowly, just a few steps at first, trying to get closer, see the face more clearly – but that's hardly necessary, you'd recognize those features anywhere, any time. Your steps become a bit quicker, your mouth opening to say something until you realize he'll never hear it, not over this rumble, but oh God you can't help it because this may not be the most dangerous place you've ever been but it's still enough to die in and why is he leaving aren't there other medics why are they taking him and –

His face disappears. All you can do is wait.

He doesn't return until late that night. You wait up for him again, and for everyone else too, and when you see the limp in his step and the cut on the forehead you leave [turn and leave again, because possibilities are far more terrifying than results] before you can get sick.

The next morning is when the apologies begin.

You seek him out. Because you hate the silence, because you hate the solitude, because you hate the empty, cold feeling that's reigning over your body after he's filled it with so much heat and anxiety and _feeling._

He isn't that hard to find. Under a tree, still counting bandages and packages of morphine and sulfa like suddenly the paints will begin to drip on this beautiful landscape, leaving them in the barren and colorless forests of Bastogne once again. He treats every parcel as though it's precious, which, you suppose, it is. To men having lived on the edge of nothing, a surplus seems like some sort of sick ruse.

You almost want to leave him there, just for a bit longer, and watch him at work. Touch gentle, shoulders relaxed, eyes focused, sun dancing in shade-shaped patterns on his uniform and still so pale skin. But as lovely that would be, words are better, so you slowly approach him. He glances up at you and gets to his feet before you can sit down.

"Sir –"

And the word just barely leaves his mouth before you cover his lips with your own. You wonder at the way his lips feel and how he gasps when you touch his waist and the warmth of his fingers on the nape of your neck. Suddenly everything aches like a gunshot wound and your stomach is doing all species of tricks and your heart is pounding in your ears and you reach up to feel Roe's under layers of cloth and skin that always seem to get in the way. Your body is in override, every sensation magnified.

"I'm sorry." And this time, it's your voice, and you marvel at the look on Gene's face as he looks at yours. You're sorry for denying him, hurting him, and running away, and damn it you're sorry you didn't kiss him sooner. "I'm so, so sorry."

He smiles, a soft little thing that looks at home on bitten-red lips. You smile back because you know this is all just a promise, and that it's a beginning, and all you have to do is love him and everything will be okay. So long as he keeps breathing and your heart keeps pumping.

And really, hasn't there always been something about him that's gotten your heart to race in the first place?


End file.
